Extinguishing the Candle
by MoonytheMarauder1
Summary: It's time to let Sirius go, but Remus finds that it's so much harder than it should be. Warnings for referenced canon character death, grieving, implied hard childhood, mentions of alcoholism


**A/N: Hey y'all! This was written for Hogwarts and the THC. This takes place after OotP.**

**Psychology Task 3: Write about something highly emotional**

**Word Count: 1035**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Those rights go to JK Rowling.**

**Hufflepuff**

**Year 1**

**Category: Prompt **

**Prompt: Saying goodbye to a loved one (used as a theme)**

**WARNINGS: Referenced canon character death, grieving, implied hard childhood, mentions of alcoholism **

**Enjoy!**

It was dark in Sirius' old room. It was also quiet; too quiet.

Remus looked around, amber eyes heavy with emotions he kept suppressed. He took in the red and gold hangings, the pictures of motorbikes and Muggle girls, all the evidence of the rebellious, stubborn teenager he remembered so well. That boy had been gone for a long time, but to Remus he was just… hidden away. He was waiting for him to come back.

Or at least, he had been. That boy was lost forever, now.

_Sirius_ was lost forever.

Remus walked over to the bed, his heart heavier than it had ever been. He remembered when James, Lily, and—he'd thought—Peter died. He'd sobbed and raged then. His heart had shattered, and there were days when he'd lost all sense of self. All that had existed was his grief, and he was left with only his demons for company.

He wasn't sobbing now. There wasn't a tear in his eye. It felt wrong, somehow, to cry in this room. This was where Sirius went to be strong—to escape, if only for a moment, the misery his childhood had been. This was where he'd realized his true family and become the man Remus loved so much. It wasn't right for him to tarnish this place with his grief.

Remus scanned the walls only to spot the picture of the four of them in seventh year, before their lives had fallen apart.

His heart ached. This was before betrayal, before sorrow, before the war was real to them. He remembered feeling like he was invincible with them by his side. Even when he joined the Order later, he hadn't quite grasped the idea that there was a very real possibility that he could lose them.

He knew better now. He knew the risks of war; he knew the statistics. Sirius' death hurt excruciatingly, but this time… this time he'd almost been expecting it. It was something he hated about himself, this firm belief that the ones he loved wouldn't last. It was so difficult for him to get attached now, because, deep down, he knew he was terrified of feeling that level of hurt again.

Was he resigned to it now? Is that why his heartbreak was more subdued, outwardly, than before? He didn't know. But he'd come up here for a reason—his eyes locked on the laughing grey ones of the boy in the photograph.

"I have to say goodbye now," he whispered. "I didn't last time. I couldn't bear to say goodbye to everyone, and you were still alive, so… Well. It doesn't matter now."

He ran a hand through his greying, tawny hair, hardly daring to breathe for fear that he'd back out of this, just like he had the last three weeks.

He didn't want to say goodbye. Their relationship after Sirius had escaped Azkaban differed greatly from when they were schoolboys, but it was still special to him. It was tenser, but with an understanding that they didn't have before. No one else in the Order knew the true extent of what they'd been through. No one else could understand their fear.

Now he was alone again, with no one to share those feelings. He knew the whole truth this time; there was no grey area for speculation. But that also meant there wasn't any room for hope.

But if he didn't let go now, if he didn't accept Sirius' death, he knew he couldn't move forward. And he had a promise to keep to James and Lily—a promise to protect their son. Moving forward was a must.

He looked at the photograph once more. They were so happy. They could never be reunited in this world, but he could fight to see that same happiness on James' son's face.

Remus swallowed. There was no grave to leave flowers on, to visit on special dates. There were no ashes to spill to the winds, to decorate the earth with proof of Sirius' sacrifice. There wasn't even a body so he could memorize the lines on the other man's face. All Remus had was a room full of memories he wasn't privy to, and photographs that were from happier, less recent times.

He frowned to himself. He wasn't here to mourn the boy; he was here to mourn the man. Yet, the boy was all he could seem to see.

Maybe the room was the problem. He needed to find a place that represented the pain Sirius had been through—he needed to admit to himself that it had been there, that the boyish happiness had long ago died. It wasn't fair to remember Sirius as anything less than the strong man he'd become.

So Remus left Grimmauld Place, resisting the urge to turn back and plunge himself into those memories. The pain had to be recognized.

He went home.

Or to his cottage, to be more precise. It hadn't ever truly felt like a home—at least, not when he lived in it alone. But that year with Sirius… he recalled all the conversations they'd almost had, all the scars they'd refused to show each other. He forced himself to think of dead grey eyes, and his forever-receding liquor supply. He thought of too-thin arms and twisted scowls, nightmares and untouched food, and a desperation that Remus could never quite satisfy.

But then, there was also the devotion and quiet determination. Harry had brought Sirius back from the dead and had kept him living. Remus would never be able to express to the boy how much it meant that he had brought joy back into Sirius' life.

Yes. This was the man he had to let go of. Flaws, love, and all.

Remus walked into his bedroom. There was nothing here to remind him of Sirius, but maybe his memories were tribute enough. He lit a candle and watched it burn. And… he let go.

It wasn't like the books. He didn't feel any lighter for it, and his pain hadn't miraculously disappeared. But there was the tiniest of comforts, all the same, in knowing that he was doing what Sirius would have wanted.

He'd said farewell… but he would never forget.


End file.
